“I can’t, Sil, not with just one hand. I’ll have to break it down.” He lifted his leg, wobbling off his balance.
“Wait, wait. Allow me.” She hovered her hand over the door knob, casting an initiation spell in her palm, then brought to mind heat from an old memory of her visiting a forge with her father. It was here in Sat’r the last time she came before going up to the Holy City. Her father was so unsettlingly nervous that trip. He and mother had grown so quiet and serious over those last few months, eager to send her away. When she’d asked if everything was alright, they would give her some excuse. ‘Prices keep going up.’ Or, ‘Ore haul’s been under weight.’ But she knew better, and it was only after she reached the Holy City that her sister explained the coming Brothers’ War. With Sato on the border, her parents must have had many sleepless nights. She remembered when she first entered the Holy Grounds to begin her aspirancy, watching her father hold her mother as they fought back tears. They loved her and Gene enough to stay behind. And after all their arduous trek to resettle in Sato only to have Gene soil their memory by—
“Sil? You alright?”
She blinked, feeling coolness on her cheek. Sniffling, she wiped her eyes of tears. “I’m alright,” she said, deciding not to give him any explanation. He wouldn’t care anyway. One way or another, tonight or tomorrow, they’d be going their own way.
Sil recalled again that forge memory, the heat, specifically, and the metal inside heated until becoming malleable. Sending the intention to her palm, she felt the warmth immediately. Her palms began to sweat, but her body casted itself a cold buffer like the air on a midwinter’s day that would protect her palm from the intense heat. She willed heat to increase, and the knob glowed a dull red before melting and clanking to the ground. The door creaked open.
“I’m impressed you didn’t burn the building down.”
“Only if you continue with your snide remarks, Markus,” she said, smiling, and with her chin up, she walked through the door. She didn’t want to tell him how many times she burned herself trying that —or the area around her target. Years ago, she would have proved him right.
Concentrating both the intention and target of the spell was very difficult, and the ‘flashy show’ often belied the arduous training. Everyone’s always awed by magic, the most spectacular of the Almighty’s gifts, but it was very dangerous work. Maybe not to healers or even the guards who protect the Temple, but to soon-to-be Valkyries like Sil, learning to battle with powers of the Almighty Himself took years of her life and many painful mistakes. Her training went beyond the elementals: fire, wind, lightening, ice and the sort. No, she learned how to crush organs, quake the ground, turn the sky dark with falling rocks, and tear limbs off by shear pressure. It only took a bit of concentration, quite and bit of concentration, and of course, she’d be in danger of those spells too. She had to admit, it excited her, though the responsibilities tempered most of that —as well as the poor people who would suffer if she made a mistake. Fire and wind, those two she was most comfortable, yet she knew she hadn’t mastered.
Once inside, Sil casted a blue palm-light, illuminating the one room shop. A counter divided the room in half with various objects spilled over it. Other objects lined the walls sitting upon floor to ceiling racks. Two glass cabinets stood to her right and left. Nothing strange about any of this.
Markus went straight for the counter and crouched down to see what was underneath. “Hey Sil, light this up.”
She did so, and Markus plopped a book on the counter. Sil shifted the blue light into white light, making the book easier to read. “Ledger, Nann’Hahh,” she read. “Nann’Hahh is an Islanders name, isn’t it?”
“Yea, someone important too if I’m reading it right with three syllables. Dim the light a bit.” He opened the book to the last page that had writing on it. “The last thing he sold was two weeks ago to another Islander named Papp. Dagger. Magical. Islander Origin. Page 21. And another short sword’s on order to the same Papp, same description. Expected to arrive…four days ago. That short sword could be what this guy went out searching for.” Markus flipped to page 21. “No, nothing, just more sales.”
He then searched under the counter and found another book: ‘Warehouse Vol 13.’ Opening it to page 21, he found an entry: “Ceremonial Dagger,” he read, “Solid gold handle with embedded gems and red pommel (not paint, unknown), Lines, curves and shades cut into the gold, Foot long blade, curved (extremely sharp), Not suited for real work (hilt too malleable), Age: Pre-Sundering, possibly used for religious rituals. Magic: Imbued ward spell—”
“Impossible,” Sil gasped. “That has to be a mistake. A warding spell can’t last that long. They’re always dissipating their magic even to the air around them. That’s why they hum.”
“My cannons last a long time,” he shrugged. “They don’t hum.”
Sil lifted an eyebrow. “You use dangerous weapons like your imbued cannons and you don’t even know how they work?”
He smiled, expectantly.
She huffed “You loaf. Now listen here, your cannons are imbued with an active spell,” she explained. “Warding spells are passive spells. They are always…um, I suppose I can use the word ’working.’ Ward spells are always ‘working.’ I don’t want the proper terminology lost with some who says he needs to ‘recharge’ his cannons.”
“Naturally, Sil,” he replied sarcastically. “Have you ever thought of becoming a teacher?” The question caught her by surprise. Even if Markus meant it to annoy her, she couldn’t help reply ‘yes, very close’ in her mind. But no, that wasn’t her track; teaching wasn’t her destiny.
She tsked him to be quiet before continuing, “a warding spell is passively waiting until something hits it. When something does, the ward pushes back. That’s why they don’t last a very long time, the air itself is always hitting it, causing the spell to dissipate, and the air hums. But your cannons are imbued with an active spell: something must be done to release the imbued magic, the pressing of the trigger, presumably, and the magical potential is released, probably a form of wind. Inside a compact chamber, I’d imagine it’ll propel you’re..um projectiles, effectively. Curses general work the same way too, though for active imbuing, the intention usually doesn’t preserve well. Depends on the strength of the mind of the mage.” —or the deity as the Ragnar’s believed, but Sil wasn’t going to tell him that. Damn you, Gene, please don’t be pursuing our past— “Other mages can effect the intention easily, even unintentionally. So, in short, the warding spell is acted upon; your cannons activate the magic. Simple, Markus?”
“Uh..intention…Unintentionally…,” he stuttered, scratched his forehead. “Are you sure you can’t recharge my cannons? It’ll save me time and—”
“No, I can’t,” she waved her free hand in front of him. “Not unless you want me to damage them.”
“No, no I wouldn’t,” he said, covetously tapping his hand-cannons by his hip. “And no they don’t use ‘projectiles.’ What would be the point if I had to reload them?”
“Well, however it causes damage isn’t important, what is important,” she continued, trying to mask her budding enthusiasm, “is that this business owner believed the blade is from the Pre-Sundering Age. Pre-Sundering Age is a term used by Islanders for a period of time before their islands broke apart. It used to be one continent, so they say, but we don’t have any records before our ancestors migrated…down…from the…Northern Ice Shelf, are you listening to me?”
Markus’s hand rested over his mouth as he watched her with a glazed look in his eye. He then whipped a finger in the air. “That’s it!”
“Is what? Tell me!”
“Historian!” —Sil blinked a few times— “You know. Go looking for lost histories and write books about it. You love books. You’re practically writing books whenever you open your mouth. It’s a noble profession, really. Maybe that’s what you should do.” Sil snickered, batting her hand dismissively. Of course she loved history, jus
t as much as Gene did. But where as Gene needed a reason to research, Sil loved knowing for its own sake. And not just mundane facts about the past, but the connections of facts to each other, the relationship of people, events, and beliefs. How they shaped and informed one another in an endless unfolding of history. The past was so important to her parents, too. It shaped their regrets and dreams, sufferings and hope, who they were. Even now in her, the long ago effects of the Nation of Ragnarok were still felt. An amazing unbroken story, the living life of Gen Shemver. No, she wouldn’t be a teacher; she’d be an —Sil stopped herself. A Valkyrie! “Huh? What’’s wrong,” Markus asked.
“Why are you all of a sudden so interested in my future career?”
He tipped his hat lower on his face. “Because,” he began somberly. “Becoming a Valkyrie isn’t much of a career. And, as I said before, if you want a future, you won’t have one going back to your Temple.”
“Oh this again,” she groaned, pointing to book. “My sisters at the Temple aren’t plotting my demise. Maybe you should consider a new career. You’re seeing conspiracies—”
“I’m serious, Sil.”
She tapped her pointing finger onto the open book. “Just read on, please.”
“Yes, Tutor Casmarus. I’ll oblige, Tutor Casmarus. It says, ‘increases durability and cutting strength. Perfect condition. Possible Cursed? Buyer: Papp.’” Markus flipped the page. “Nothing more. Damn, we don’t know what’s so important about an ancient Islander artifact that would involve Gene…do you?” He narrowed his eye on her.
“No,” Sil said, defensively. The Chills, the Cults, Ragnarok, and their family certainly had their relationships. But Islanders? And the Pre-Sundering Age?”
“That it!”
Sil gave him a flat stare. “Am I too take you seriously this time?”
“No, no. I’m serious. He knows history, Sil. I’m thinking when Nann’Hahh went out searching for his late sword delivery, he came across Gene and saw what she was working on. And he recognized it. You know what they say about too much knowledge.”
“It’s—”
“Dangerous,” he interrupted. Markus closed the book. “Flare up your light.”
Sil brightened her palm-light before letting it float up to the ceiling. As soon as it detached from her palm, it began dimming while Markus continued searching under the counter.
“There’s got to be another book. A journal, diary. The man had to record his findings.”
Sil let Markus search; it was bad enough they had broken into someone’s place. So instead, Sil marveled at all the things on display. The counter was cluttered with warding stones, some jewel encrusted, others chiseled and dyed like Markus’s identification stone. Some of these would make a pretty necklace. Sil felt at her own warding stone that hung on her neck by a thin thread. Not adorned like these, just simple, functional, poor by comparison. No, humble, she decided, nodding to herself.
Two glass cabinets stood behind her with jewels, gems, and more stones embedded into chains and jewelry. The lower shelves held plenty of weapons that appeared more ornamental than practical. Some even had dull edges. Nothing like the simple culinary knife she wore. Why anyone would want such useless items was beyond her, or maybe not, she thought twice. Against her floating palm-light, the gems gave off beautiful reds, greens and yellows while the polished metal reflected her worn plain face, tired tan eyes, and drab brown clothing, wrinkled and dirtied. Any one of these ornaments would be a nice change to her stone necklace. “I wish we could find this Nahh’Hahh,” she said. “I’d like to talk to him about some of his pieces.” Or maybe purchase one.
But deciding not to dwell on what couldn’t be, she moved onto a large marble statue of a winged female figure a little taller than herself. She smiled, her heart swelling. The statue held its hands over its heart in prayer with two sets of wings: a larger set extending from her upper back and a smaller set extending from her mid back. This was the venerable Icon of the Golden Lady, a picture of a Valkyrie she was meant to become. She was supposed to be this beautiful; she would be this beautiful.
“Damn it,” Markus cursed from behind her. “Nothing’s here. Maybe we should use you as bait after all.”
“Maybe he hid his journal at his home,” Sil suggested, feeling the smooth featureless face of the statue: oval, gracefully feminine, yet majestic, regal, and fearless in its posture, divine-like and powerful like …like a Valkyrie should be.
She gasped, feeling warmth on her hand. The statue wasn’t marble at all; it was a huge warding stone worked and made smooth. …And it indicated the presence of the Chills.
“There are Chills in the area, Markus,” she called, touching her own warding stone and finding it cool. Where ever the Chills were, they weren’t near her.
“Nothing to worry about.” Markus joined her and whistled upon seeing the icon. “Looks expensive. Don’t think I can buy that for you on an imperial salary.”
She creased her lips together in sarcasm. “I thought Islanders worshiped another Shard of the Almighty.”
“Not from what I know,” Markus answered. “Isn’t that why they’re always on pilgrimages?”
“Uh, yes, you’re right,” she stumbled. The Islander Shard was kept secret, even from most priests. For years now, the Northern Islands have been wrestling for the Black Monolith’s possession from the Tundra tribes, the Black Clan, specifically. In no way was she going to let that piece of information slip to an imperial. Markus walked around the back of the icon and Sil sighed. The last thing she wanted was for Siga’s lustful attention to fall onto the Black Monolith on account of her recklessness. She was becoming too comfortable with this man, a man who had already lied to her. Only a little while longer.
Markus popped around again, shaking his head and cupping his forehead with his hand. “I really don’t care about your Temple secrets, Sil.”
She snapped a stern look at him. “…that obvious?”
“You know, I usually have to sense what other’s are feeling, but honestly, I don’t need to with you. It’s written all over your face.”
Feeling exposed, she fought back reddening cheeks and rose her chin. “Oh, just find what you’re looking for already and let’s be out of here.”
Markus waved his uninjured arm over the shop. “Nothing. Nothing’s here. Why would Gene’s people guard this place if there was nothing here? Wouldn’t Gene have cleaned everything connected with them from this shop anyway?”
“Maybe that man with the gray hat wasn’t one of hers? You said he might be from MaCathy.”
Markus walked around the counter to the front window. Moving the drapes aside to peek out of the window, he tipped his hat lower. “He’s out there,” he whispered. “Right behind the door. He’s just one man though. We can take him, right?” He winked at her.
“If we haven’t found anything we should go.” She turned for the back door, but her foot caught on something on the ground, a piece of the floor board that had bent up and ran under the statue. She casted another palm-light. The light on the ceiling gave out.
“Sil,” Markus whispered in the dark. “What happened?”
“Come here, I think I found something.” She followed the edge of the floor board behind the statue and found a door hinge. “There’s a downstairs.” Feeling the statue’s pedestal-like base, she found the heat warming toward the bottom. “And there’s Chills down there too,” she muttered
“Not afraid of ‘mundane cold air’ now, are you,” Markus said in his full voice. Sil jumped. “We’ve got warding stones. Why so scared?”
She hit his sore arm. “I am not scared.”
Despite wincing, he chuckled. “Help me move this.” And with some effort, they managed to move the statue to uncover a door on the floor. Sil lifted it, thankfully unlocked. Wooden stairs descended into darkness below.
“Do you find it odd this shopkeeper would be purposely keeping the Chills down in his cellar,” Sil asked.
Markus shru
gged a shoulder. “He’s gotta know if he’s selling the real thing, right? Man’s gotta have a conscience.”
“I…suppose,” she said, turning to him expectantly. “You first.” She pointed her palm-light down the stair.
“You have the light.”
“Are you seriously asking a lady to go down to who knows where—”
“A lady now? I thought you were an all-powerful ‘Valkyrie,’” Markus said.
She tossed her palm-light into the darkness revealing a short stair, more like a slanted ladder, leading to a dirt floor. Sil glowered at him, crossing her arms across her chest and tapping her foot.
He smiled and shook his head before descending. Once he reached the bottom, he stumbled back against the stairs. “Sil, get down here,” he said.
Sil raced down to find a man shackled to the stone wall, his head drooped, knees bent as though the shackles provided the only support. She recasted her light on him, revealing his sweat drenched hair and clothes. “We have to help him.” She started for him, but Markus grabbed her arm.
“Wait,” he said. “You feel that?”
Sil noticed a chill in the musky air becoming cold like a winter breeze, already bitting at her nose and cheeks. Water condensed into droplets against the stone walls, trickling down onto the dusty ground. She released her light to float to the ceiling before tightening her mantle over her shoulders, noting the warmth on her chest from her necklace warding stone.
“We have warding stones. He needs help,” she said, moving on ahead to the shackled man. She lifted his head as sweat dripped down his face. “He’s alive.” Opening his eye lids, they appeared clouded, pupils dilated even with the light in the room. Sil placed her hand on his forehead. “He’s got a fever.”
“Chills infection?” Markus joined her, examining the man’s shackled wrists. “Nun-na-Ha…Can you understand me?”
The man stirred, mumbling. “Who…”
“Damn it, I can’t pick shackled locks like this. Sil, search for something to break these chains.”
Sil scrounged around, finding the cellar empty except for a small table of black liquid vials and plenty of warding stones from small pebbles to big rocks the size of her head. She grabbed one that fit into her palm and began smashing the chains for the man’s right arm.
Call of the Chosen- Broken Kingdoms Page 64